Outside Aimee Yu ‘23

OUTSIDE

Aimee Yu

200 feet.

I slow down, panting, when I see him approaching on the exact same trail. A man with no mask on. Remember the manners my mother taught me in front of strangers: hands knowing the gesture to wave, lips knowing the perfect angle to curve. I practice the movements, reminding myself to switch to a far-o route next time.

100 feet.

He is coming closer, skin burning red from the frantic sunlight of late August, with those elbow pads and a tie-dye headband that make everyone look like real athletes during quarantine. He has a pair of sunglasses so neat that I wish I had not forgotten mine in the house along with the powder blue Yankee hat I bought in a stall in the corner of the plaza before shutdown. Really, stop thinking about stupid hats. You are now trapped with someone whom you have to pass by for a mere eeting moment.

50 feet.

Trapped. Probably this is not the best time to get overwhelmed with the fact that my social etiquette is slipping away. I’ve never been afraid of meeting new people, yet the sight of this stranger — and every pore of his skin freely dripping with water — exposes a terrifying disregard to the mask-only rule I’ve come to know as standard.

15 feet.

Trees narrow, their branches pushing out the last peek of clear cloudless sky. Rocks and stones pile up in my lungs, and pebbles scramble to ll in the remaining space. I desperately need a divergence to appear; then I’ll be on one side while he’s on the other. My eyes are searching, but there is no o -ramp, no escape. His wrinkles create boundaries, crossing one another to sculpt his face. I examine those lines. e deep ones look like caution tape, keeping people at distance in public; even the almost invisible ones have been holding us back from each other since this all began.

6 feet: Social Distance

Blood freezes. I stop breathing when I hear footsteps thumping the asphalt and year-old crispy leaves. Some from me, some from him. I listen, waiting for the two noises to merge, waiting for our shoulder-to-shoulder passing to clench my heart with a tightening grip. Crack. Crunch. Crack.

0 feet.

Strands of hair are dancing wildly when the wind picks up between me and him, then they are back to still again, resting beside my neck as if nothing just happened. But everything did. I passed by him in silence, locking my eyes to the path without waving or smiling. Maybe his lips curled up at the perfect angle that I had practiced for so long beneath my mask; maybe he tried to say a courteous hello, wondering why I didn’t reply. I heard only the crushed autumn underneath my feet.

More than 500 feet away.

e restless thumping of my heart trailed o as steps took me back home. I felt no threat, no fear, but a sense of safety, surrounded in the balmy sunshine. And suddenly he seemed completely normal; a stranger so close to me, but at the same time too distant. I remembered his smile now, carefree as the summer breeze, and I regretted not giving him mine.